Free Dusted to Death by Barbara Colley

dressing room. Since the door was closed, Charlotte knocked lightly and waited a moment, just in case Angel was inside dressing. Just for good measure, she knocked again, a bit louder. Satisfied that no one was in the room, she opened the door. The first thing she noticed was that the room was in shambles again, only much, much worse than the previous day. The next thing she noticed was the smell. It was an odor she’d smelled before, one that was hard to forget.
    The odor of blood and death.
    A shiver of foreboding ran down her spine and her knees went weak.
    “It’s just my imagination, just my imagination,” she chanted softly in an attempt to work up enough courage to enter the room. “There’s nothing wrong, just my imagination.” Finally, taking a deep breath, she stepped just inside the doorway. And she froze in place.
    Just beyond the dressing table, lying on the floor, was a body. She recognized the man immediately. He was on his back, dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. Though most of the blood looked as if the rug had soaked it up, there was no mistaking the dark stains that spread out from his upper body.
    Charlotte choked back a scream and her knees went weak. Beneath her breasts, her heart pounded like a jackhammer. “Oh, dear Lord in heaven,” she cried, grabbing the door frame for support.
    Torn between screaming for help and checking out the person on the floor, just in case he was still breathing, she stared at the bloodstained rug. That’s when she finally noticed the letter opener on the floor beside the body. From the looks of it, she figured that, more than likely, it was what he’d been killed with. For some reason, seeing it reminded her of the many times that her police detective niece, Judith, had complained about well-meaning people messing up a crime scene. Still, what if he was still alive or simply needed CPR?
    Though it was the last thing she wanted to do, Charlotte forced herself to stare at him hard a moment more. Along with his open dead eyes, there was no movement around his chest area that would indicate he was still breathing. But unwillingly, her gaze kept returning again and again to the murder weapon.
    What was it about the letter opener? She wrinkled her brow. Then she remembered. Unless she was mistaken, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t, the murder weapon looked like the exact same letter opener that Angel had used in the final scene that had been shot the previous day.
    She’d first noticed the ornate silver letter opener when she’d dusted the library. She’d mostly noticed it because she couldn’t recall Bitsy ever owning one like it. When she’d mentioned it to Heather, the young woman had explained that it was one of the props. In the next scene to be shot, Angel’s character was supposed to grab the letter opener off the desk and stab an intruder.
    A cold feeling of dread settled in Charlotte’s stomach.
    Angel .
    Would the police find the actress’s fingerprints on the letter opener? Angel was known for her outbursts of anger. Was it possible that in a fit of anger the young woman had stabbed Nick, a case of real life imitating fiction?
    “Surely not,” she whispered. Surely Angel wouldn’t be that stupid. Shoving the speculations to the back of her mind, Charlotte stared once more at the man’s eyes, eyes fixed in that eerie death stare. With a shaky sigh, she finally decided that the man was dead, had to be, so there would be no use for her tromping through the crime scene.
    She stepped back out into the hallway and pulled the door firmly closed.
    Call the police. Do it now.
    She automatically reached inside her apron pocket. No phone. “Great,” she muttered as she realized that she’d left her cell phone in her purse downstairs. What to do, what to do?
    Go get the security guards.
    “Good idea,” she murmured. Obeying the silent voice of reason, she turned and walked quickly down the hallway. “In fact, excellent idea.” For her own sake,